The Eleventh Hour
by sneakypeaches
Summary: "This is bad, he fleetingly thought for the second time that night. After everything, Clay wasn't going to go out in a blaze of glory. He was going to be done in by a knife to the gut and a push down the stairs." OR: After what should have been a routine mission in Tajikistan, Clay is grievously wounded and Bravo is stranded. Whump and bromance abound.
1. Pain

**Notes**: This story will have a general divergence from the end of S2. This is not a deathfic, but it's fairly gory and there will be lots of medical details. I'm not a medical professional, just good friends with Google. There's likely some mistakes but alas, this is fanfic 🙂

**Dedicated to** burn_me_down for her encouraging comments that inspired me to write, and because of the incredible talent she brings to this fandom.

I'm also in search of a beta who likes to give detailed feedback. I'd love to hear how I can make this story better.

###

_"I do not fear the darkness; for I am the terror that owns the night." - American Republic_

No moon, no stars, and a cold, heavy hail drizzled out of the mountain sky. To anyone else, the shitty weather would provoke misery and general contempt, a place that no one wanted to be.

Anyone but them.

Because anything that made their enemy miserable and vulnerable became their strength.

Like shadowy monsters in the night, hidden by the rolling fog and loud patter of freezing rain, Bravo and Alpha Teams closed onto the massive fortress. Jason eyed the SEALs while pressing his body deep into the cover of the rockwall that surrounded the compound.

"Ready, boys?"

The soft _snap _of their safeties flipped off.

"I have two tangos in sight. Call your shot, Bravo One," Full Metal said. He peered over the low wall, eyes on the two lone sentries stationed on either side of the compound's entrance.

_Mistake Number One: _The guards were in plain view and though they were heavily armed, they lacked body armor and weren't keenly observant. They'd been trained by the Taliban but they clearly lacked actual execution.

"Left," Jason whispered and aimed. "Three, two, one -"

Twin suppressed shots. The men fell. Silence.

"Passing Lincoln," Jason said into his comm. Step five was now complete; Eric would likely be marking his whiteboard back at TOC that very second.

With a nod from Full Metal, Alpha Team slipped away and Bravo waited patiently as the others climbed the rear of the compound to the roof. Shortly after, their radios buzzed to life and Alpha One declared, "All call signs, Alpha Team set, we've reached the roof and we're ready to breach."

"Copy, Alpha One. Bravo Team moving to breach."

Bravo pried open the entrance doors and then, deathly silent, they poured inside with incredible precision. The corridor was dim, lit only by a faint glowing candle in the first room to their right- the main sitting room. Together they fanned out in synchronized steps, the only sound was their boots, barely echoing across the mud brick floor. They cleared the first floor together: two large sitting rooms, a kitchen, washroom, and two small storage areas, all void of the number of hostiles they'd been briefed on.

Clay's blood was singing, thrumming with hot adrenaline as the team ascended the stairs to the second floor. Every nerve was on alert; each step closer to the bedrooms they took the higher chance they'd encounter their targets, who likely slept unknowing of the danger that had just breached their dwelling.

Just as they'd rehearsed, Bravo Team split to cover more ground. Though they knew their American hostages were at this very compound, they'd had no intel of exactly _where_, and the compound itself was massive. Jason, Ray, Trent and Brock continued on to the upper third and fourth levels to join Alpha, while Sonny and Clay began clearing the second. It hadn't been more than fifteen seconds when what followed next happened nearly simultaneously:

Suppressed fire from the third floor then sharp cries, followed by retaliating fire - distinctly loud Russian-made AKs, _not the weapons they were carrying. _Any attempt at stealth was now gone.

Then the door to Sonny's immediate right crashed open. A man tore from inside the room, face twisted in a violent, biblical rage, dragging a terror-struck child, who he used as a human shield. More cries came from inside the room - it was a woman, and her screams pierced the air with words that were clearly English. _One of their hostages_.

Their so-called smooth sailing mission had just hit a shit storm.

"Put him down! Put your weapon down! Get on the floor!" Clay shouted in Pashto. He watched in horror as the man scurried backwards and dragged the weeping boy down the long hallway, rifle pressed deeply to his temple.

"_Sonofabitch_. I got him," Sonny said, raging forward. "Go, handle her! Bravo One, this is Four, I've got an HVT in sight, I'm pursuing."

Clay didn't hesitate, knowing Sonny could handle it because hearing their hostage sobbing in the large bedroom - that was his priority. He entered the room, his night vision goggles rendering a strangely light and dark green visible darkness as he searched for the source of the cries in two seconds flat.

Human eyes glowed back at him in his NVGs; it was Carmen Mendoza, one of their hostages. Her naked body was tied up, curled in the far corner of the room. A soaked gag had fallen out of her mouth and hung against her chin and agonized moans left her cracked and bleeding lips. He took a step towards the brutalized woman to calm her and announce that they'd come to rescue her and her husband…

It happened fast. There was a blur of motion in the corner of his eye; Clay turned, only took a moment to identify that it was one of their targets, Farjaad, storming towards him and so he squeezed a long burst from his HK416 into the man. Farjaad fell, twitched, then went still.

Behind Farjaad's body there was another flash of movement. A man emerged from behind a partition, scrambling towards two AK's propped against the wall just a few feet from Carmen. Clay hadn't been able to see his face, couldn't tell if this was their other hostage or another radicalized insurgent. Their mission was, in part, to rescue the hostages from this compound and Erik Mendoza will still missing. Erik could easily be confused by the sudden assault and could be trying to defend himself and his wife.

"Get down on the ground!" Clay shouted in English. Then in Pashto when he was ignored he yelled, "Get down! Do not go for the weapon!"

But the man scurried faster and so Clay lunged, tackling him. There was a brief fight for power but he was well-trained and quickly took the upper hand. Straddling him, Clay struggled to keep the man down and also adjust his NVGs that'd been jarred loose in the fight. He only needed a second to finally get facial recognition; the man below him was not Erik. It was Giv, Farjaad's brother, a man who was in deep with the same terrorist organization. _Kill any combatant on sight except for your HVTs Jahangeer and Ilyos Yusufi, _Blackburn had gruffly told them. So he did: double-tapped him in the chest. Giv gurgled and then went silent.

"All Bravo elements, this is Bravo Six," Clay said slightly out of breath into his comm, "I have two enemy KIA's, jackpot on the female hostage. I repeat, jackpot on female hostage."

Clay took a deep breath and stood, eyes sweeping the room. Though he didn't see anyone, just the woman, the hairs on the back of his neck had risen. As a Tier One operator, it'd been instilled in him to notice the little things: the disturbed dirt or snapped twig on the side of a trail, the silhouette of an SVEST hidden under layers of clothing. Even across the shadowy room as his eyes focused on Mendoza, he saw the slight change in her facial features: her brows pinched together, eyes widened impossibly bigger, lips parted in a soft gasp.

Fear. Primal fear.

But not of Clay.

She was looking just over his shoulder.

A deep, soldierly instinct caused him to swing his rifle to the left but -

He was a second too late.

Pain crashed across his back, jarring and deep. The air whooshed from his lungs and he stumbled forward, smashing headfirst into the doorframe. The second impact was resounding through his core. His NVGs snapped off, helmet taking the brunt of the crash. Clay didn't even have a moment to clear the black spots from his vision when a fist raked him hard across his jaw, knocking his helmet off, followed by the hot taste of blood. His head was quickly slammed back into the doorframe, wood splintering under his brow. A foreign hand jerked his rifle as he stumbled drunkenly, taking it as far as it'd go from his gunsling, and then the butt end smashed into the back of his skull. The only conscious thought he could muster was that this was bad.

This was very, very bad.

The insurgent got his hand on his rifle again and they struggled over control of the weapon together, despite Clay's greying vision and sudden loss of hearing. There was a flash of the muzzle as the guy got a loose finger on the trigger; the shot went wild, missed them both, and as the trigger was pulled again the gun miraculously jammed. It skittered to the floor as their continued struggle turned into swinging fists.

Clay managed to pitch to the left to dodge the next blow, falling out of the room and into the hallway. He turned, curled his fist, and the man ran right into his punch, a hit straight to the solar plexus. The hostile went backwards and that was when Clay saw what he had in his grip: the glint off a six-inch formidable combat knife. Blood dropped in rivulets off the serrated blade.

_Whose blood?_

The man recovered instantly and sprung to close the two foot gap between them. Clay didn't have time to reach to his hip and pull out his sidearm and so he rushed forward, using his forearm to shove the guy's hand with the knife outwards, away from his own body -

They both went down to the ground and fought and rolled, limbs entangling, the sound of flesh on flesh, relentless. Clay got in three well-placed blows but the man didn't let up, continued his brutal assault in a rush, like he was impervious to pain and the human limits of stamina. The blows that Clay did land didn't phase him at all, just made him angrier, louder, and stronger.

Alarmingly, there was no reprieve when another punch cracked against his temple again.

He slumped bonelessly to the floor and that was when time slowed down.

It hadn't even been a minute since the start of the attack and he was pinned down to the ground, barely conscious. Looking up through puffy, bloody and watering eyes, Clay finally got a good look at the guy's face: it was Ashur, the Yusufi brother's 3IC. Drug runner, human smuggler, all around Very Bad Guy. His face was red-purple, veins popping, spit spewing from his mouth as he roared at him in a strange slurry mix of Pashto and Dari. One hand was wrapped around Clay's neck, pressure increasing twofold, completely cutting off his air. Clay's only mercy was that the knife, still gripped in Ashur's other hand, was hovering above. The man seemed to be taking extreme pleasure in just choking him out instead of cutting him up.

Clay wrapped his fingers around Ashur's wrists to try to dislodge him. Even as his vision began to sparkle and fade, he could see Ashur's blown pupils, see his face twist into a wolfish grin. A literal stream of sweat rolled down his face, soaking his shirt.

It was unnatural.

_Unnatural_.

For a microsecond in between his body's blind panic to get air, Clay connected the dots.

They'd been infiltrating high-level drug traffickers… kingpins who had unfettered access to a surplus of stimulants, hallucinogens, and untested synthetic compounds. He felt the first bit of real fear rising as he realized why he was fighting someone who displayed inhuman strength, unmatched even for a Tier One operator.

Desperation roiled deep within him, sending his body into overdrive. With all his might, Clay twisted his hips, unseating Ashur just enough for Clay to jerk again, this time getting enough leverage to get his knee high enough to connect with his groin. Ashur fell off him but only for a second.

"Sonny!" Gasping and choking, Clay finally had breath to call out. "Bravo, I-" a wheeze, a cough, "I.. need -"

He got halfway vertical and fingers went for his thigh holster. His hands were shaking, he was dizzy, his fingertips just brushed the pistol grip of his Sig, when -

The resulting body slam stole the little breath he had left in his lungs, the thread of air making its way out producing an odd wheezing gurgle. In the fight for his life, Clay hadn't seen how close they'd rolled to the staircase until they were plummeting over the edge.

Limbs a tangled heap with Ashur's, they somersaulted down the long flight of unyielding cement stairs, pitching down hard and ugly and -

His body stopped with a violent, heavy jolt, his vulnerable head cracking against the mud brick wall. Pain exploded, sparking fireworks behind his eyes. For a moment that's all there was: pain, darkness, silence.

Then his world was spinning. He came back to himself and took loud, heaving breaths. Or, he thought he was, because his ears were ringing so loudly that he couldn't hear much of anything. Forcing his eyes open, he saw his own legs akimbo and then the expanse of the empty stairwell in front of him.

He had hit the floor hard and ended up with his head and shoulders against the far wall. Wetness was sheeting down his face. Clay reached up with a shaking hand to swipe the blood out of his eyes, but it just smeared on his hand and ended up everywhere. As the ringing in his ears began to wane, he heard the exchange of gunfire on the floors above. The mission came back to him in a rush as well as the insurgent who had taken him down the stairs.

Clay rolled his head to the side. Ashur was close - maybe three feet - and though it was dark it only took a second for his eyes to focus; he could see blood all over the guy. He also saw the long metal of the knife in the man's neck. His eyes were open and unseeing. He was dead.

The bit of relief was fleeting, though. He needed to move and get back to his team.

Swallowing after several painful breaths, he managed to get enough muscle to respond to try to pull himself up into a sitting position. But the second he tensed his abdominals, his body ignited in pain, a searing agony that shot through his lower belly, encompassing and effusive. It stole his breath and his eyes rolled back as his body went wholly limp. For a moment he breathed hot wet, noisy breaths as tears leaked from his eyes and his world went vaguely distant.

When the pain receded enough to think again, Clay sucked in a sharp gasp.

He heard a very far-off _Six! Six! _from the floors above. Intermittent gunfire continued, interspersed between shouts from his team and the enemy.

_He needed to move._

He was out in the open and injured. Clay had the rational thought that if he couldn't make it up the stairs to help his team, the least he could do was get to cover and not somehow become a liability or another hostage.

Clay tried to get up again. It took several attempts, but by sheer force of will he was able to get to his feet and that was when he felt a strange, nauseating pressure in his gut and a sudden warmth gushing over his shirt and pants. He looked down. Even in the dark he could see that the shirt under his vest, his pelvic area, and his left thigh were saturated in fluid.

His fingers came away wet and red when he touched it. All at once, bodily tremors overtook him and his belly throbbed in time with his heartbeat, the same rapid heartbeat that galloped faster and faster in his ears. Stuttering, flailing.

It hurt.

God, it hurt.

_Ignore it_, he urged himself. He couldn't linger. _You need to move._

Every step was agony but he did it, one staggering step followed by another. Clay made the short distance from where he'd landed, over to the sitting room across the hall. The door had been left open when it had been cleared earlier, and it was dark and quiet. Twelve steps, maybe fifteen with the way he was stumbling, and he'd make it to the far wall where he could render himself aid and then maybe get back to his brothers. He made it to the wall just in time as vertigo rolled up and over him. Even though he tried to brace himself, he slid down and landed hard on his ass, the impact jarring his side. Agony blossomed from deep within and his lips parted in an airless gasp as blood dribbled from his mouth.

Clay looked down.

There was a bulge under his shirt that hadn't been there a minute ago. With a shaking hand he pressed on his lower belly, and the bulge shifted under the slight pressure, squishing like a wet sponge. It took everything within him to lift the hem of his shirt.

And when he saw that his insides were now on his _outside, _it was as if he was in a vortex, all noise sucked away, even the frantic hammering of his heart. No amount of SEAL training could prepare him for this type of trauma.

Distantly, Clay heard voices: they were thin and fraught and far away.

_Six, can you hear me?_

_Clay, SITREP._

_Clay!_

The shock of everything had caused the pounding in his skull to intensify and he gasped raggedly for breath. His blood-slicked hand reached for his comm, then realized it'd been knocked loose in the fight.

Before he could call out, Clay found his stomach rebelling. The bile burned up his esophagus and it tasted acrid on his tongue as it came out. He convulsed as he heaved, belly tensing rock hard. He heaved again, more forcefully this time and it was all too much. The pressure in his abdomen from vomiting sent him down to his side and a torn sob escaped him. The bulge under his palm grew bigger, the feeling of it resounded through his body with horrifying intensity.

_This was bad_, he fleetingly thought for the second time that night. He could still hear the _pop pop pop _of bullets in the floors above him, and he wasn't sure he could put up much of a fight if one came to him.

After everything, Clay wasn't going to go out in a blaze of glory. He was going to be done in by a knife to the gut and a push down the stairs.

He couldn't let that happen. He _wouldn't_.

Hearing what he thought was the succinct thudding of boots down the stairs, Clay braced his belly and somehow stood, leaning against the wall behind him with his full weight. One shaking hand held the bulge on his belly, the other raised his gun to aim. His vision was tunneling and he was shaking like a leaf but he wouldn't go down like this.

A few seconds passed where nothing happened and then his awareness started to slip. Toes and fingers tingled and everything started to buzz and slowly dissipate.

This wasn't what he wanted at all.

###

_Twelve Hours Previous:_

What Clay actually wanted was to rescue two hostages. Such things were pretty much par for the course when it came to DEVGRU, and this mission was no exception.

"You're looking at the photos of Erik and Carmen Mendoza, just recently married American college students who went backpacking in the Wakhan Corridor of northeast Afghanistan. They disappeared two months ago. We now have actionable intelligence about the precise location of where they're being held."

"Hiking? In Afghanistan?" Brock asked.

Sonny just looked insulted. "Why in the hell would someone go to Afghanistan by choice?"

Mandy raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Contrary to mainstream narratives that are limited to incidences of violence, not all of Afghanistan is a war torn state. The Wakhan region has remained conflict-free over the years and untouched by the Taliban and Al-Qaeda influence. It's been a markedly peaceful area."

Sonny made a 'hmmph' noise and chewed his toothpick. "Markedly peaceful? Well I'm not sure the Mendoza's agree with that statement."

Jason studied the information projected ahead of him and began to feel impatient, still waiting for Mandy to finish her point. "What's the story, Mandy?"

"I said _'has been' _peaceful. We have reason to believe the Haqqani Network, a subset of the Taliban, has moved into a pocket at the northern tip of the Wakhan Corridor. They've been using this area to smuggle synthetic drugs and weapons in and out of Tajikistan. We believe they saw the Mendoza's as targets of opportunity, snatched them. Westerners are capable of generating hundreds of thousands, if not millions of dollars in ransom from their governments and families."

"Our government doesn't negotiate with terrorists," Clay said simply.

"Doesn't mean they won't try," Eric said from where he stood by Mandy, arms crossed.

"We've picked up some local chatter," Mandy continued, "and know that the two have been taken directly across the border, about two kilometers, to a remote village in Tajikistan."

Mandy thumbed the pointer in his grasp. A map of Wakhan Corridor disappeared and now the headshots of seven men were displayed for them to see. Eric moved to the projected images and spoke, "These are your two HVT's: brothers Jahangeer and Ilyos Yusufi. We're also estimating there to be another five men at the compound, who regularly support the brothers. We only have first names: Abdul, Farjaad, Abbasi, Ashur, and Giv. Ashur seems to do most of the chief shit for the Yusufi's, in addition to a long list of transgressions including sport killing in Eastern Afghan, human trafficking."

"Sounds like a real nice fella."

Blackburn walked to the table and placed two documents in the center. The first, a topographic map of the Wakhan Corridor and bordering Tajikistan region; the second, a detailed sketch of the compound itself. "Here's your route in: you HAHO in the Wakhan Corridor. You'll hike the border with Alpha Team into Tajikistan, using the backside of this mountain for good concealment from the target compound. From primary insert to the compound, you're looking at a two night hike. At the compound, Alpha Team will climb to the roof, they'll clear down. Bravo, you enter from the ground level, clear up. You coordinate over comms with simultaneous assault, you both meet in the middle. Bam. Secure our two hostages, take the Yusufi brothers alive, meet at the rally point and make exfil together."

Jason regarded the map cautiously. The compound was large but not impenetrable. The surroundings provided cover, and the remote land meant oppositional backup was far away. Their hostiles were drug smugglers and weapon runners - not war combatants, which meant they were tactically green. The only thing they had working against them was the terrain and the weather: the high Pamir Mountains that surrounded the Corridor were only second to the Himalayas. It was these very mountains and the dangerous terrain that kept them from inserting any closer to their target. And at such a high altitude, the weather was often unpredictable and severe. It could make traveling and flying in the area impossible for days at a time.

Mandy added to this, "The region is steep so expect typical comms problems."

Either way, this mission was classic. One they'd done dozens of times with success.

Jason locked eyes across the table with Ray, nodded to him. Easy.

Ray echoed with a firm nod. Easy.

###

Between the giants of Hindukush and the Pamir Mountains, Alpha and Bravo Teams dropped into the Wakhan Corridor in perfect silence from the skies.

It was the beginning of October, which meant winter was almost upon the region. As they touched down at the drop zone, a barren valley that ran between the three mountain ranges, they were left shivering from the night wind. Jason counted heads then studied each silhouetted figure, looking for limps or signs of injury from impact.

They each nodded to him. All good.

"TOC, this is Bravo 1. Successful insertion. Heading for target," Jason said quietly and then turned towards his teams. "Full Metal?"

Alpha's team leader had just finished wrapping his parachute in a tight bundle and stood. "We'll stay out back, follow your lead. Derek, you're rear security."

"Ray, I want you on point," Jason added as he also stowed his gear. "Sonny, behind him. The rest of you, fall into patrol order behind me. We'll hike until dawn."

They moved out. Jason waited until the others were far enough away then subtly grabbed Clay's shoulder, squeezed it. "You good, kid?"

It was Six's first mission back since the bombing in Manila and they were all a little on edge. Given how his team had almost lost him, how he still had the thick and knotted scars to show every time he undressed in front of his team, Clay was not surprised to see the (not-so-subtle) hints of continued mollycoddling and even second-guessing. They would never outright say it, but he saw it in the way Davis packed his gear (stowing extra hand warmers, hot chocolate, and wool socks just for comfort), saw it in the way Trent triple checked his med bag and added extra supplies, saw it when Sonny stoically clipped his hammock next to his on the flight over, a few feet closer than normal.

Their confidence in him was fractured.

One night that went terribly wrong; it hadn't been his fault and yet he still had to bear the consequences. Clay couldn't let go of the notion that until he proved himself to his team, that he was just as able-bodied as before, his spot in DEVGRU was jeopardized.

Clay regarded Jason out of the corner of his eye, gave him a nod and tight smile. After a lifetime of abandonment and never feeling good enough, he'd worked hard to not be seen as weak and dependent. The helplessness he felt to prove his worth to the only people he had left, weighed heavily on him.

###

At dawn, they made camp in a little cave under a jagged rock outcropping. Alpha took first watch and set the perimeter as Bravo settled in for a few hours' rest. Temperatures had plunged to just above freezing during the night and they were all tired and yearning to warm up. Just as Clay shimmied into his sleeping bag and closed his eyes, he felt a nudge.

Cracking an eye open he saw Sonny, extending a mug of warm hot chocolate.

Clay took the offer with a happy groan and sipped in approval. "You'll make a good housewife someday, Sonny."

Surprisingly, Three didn't take the bait and just sipped his own. "Well, you look like hell. Somebody's gotta take care of you, Wonder Boy."

The long, doleful cries of wolves echoed in the distance and they sat quietly for a few moments, their silence only broken by Ray and Brock who held their own soft conversation a few feet away.

Sonny's solemnity and scrutiny were unnerving him. Had been ever since he'd been officially cleared to operate. Clay ran a hand through his curls and tried turning his attention onto something that didn't include observations of his wellbeing. "Did you know Marco Polo walked along this trail?"

"Marco Polo? 'Marco Polo' as in: pool tag 'Marco Polo'?"

Clay scoffed. "What are you, five? Yeah, Son, Marco Polo. You ever take a history class?"

"You were _reading _-" Sonny gave him the eye, but folded his arms together and settled as if the story was just getting interesting. "I always knew you were the soft type."

"I was _reading_," Clay continued, "before wheels up and Marco Polo came through the Corridor with his family on the way to China, just over the border."

Sonny 'humphed'. Thought. "So why is the game named after him, anyway?"

"They say he got separated from his family on one of his expeditions. His family kept calling for him by 'Marco' and he responded 'Polo' until they found each other."

"Well if that ain't the dumbest thing I've ever heard, I don't know what is." Sonny settled deeply into his sleeping bag and set his mug aside; he would rinse it out later after a few hours sleep. "Alright, what do you say we rack out, nerd boy? We got a big day ahead."

Clay cracked a smile and finished his hot chocolate. It felt good going down, soothing something that'd been clenched and aching since Stella left him, since he nearly died in Manila. A minute later, he was tucked in warmly, almost shoulder to shoulder with Sonny.

He uncovered his arm, held his out his fist. "Night, brother."

Sonny tapped it with his own. "Night, sunshine. No snoring, ya hear? And keep those icicles that you call feet away from me. You turn into a damn octopus when it's cold, don't think I've forgotten how much…"

Lashes fluttering and finally closing, Clay's smile grew, because even as his friend continued his drawled complaints, Sonny subtly shifted closer, sharing his warmth.

###

It was another night of hiking the vast Corridor's valleys and plateaus, passing ruins of villages and lonely ancient tombs. Surrounding them on all sides were dramatic, snow-capped peaks of the three towering mountain ranges, and if Clay closed his eyes long enough, breathed in the frosty mountain air, he could envision himself being in the tranquil Rocky Mountains of Colorado, not a theater of war.

They followed the icy, roaring Panj River through narrow canyons and deep gorges. The going was slow; they made sure to keep a good distance between themselves and the few nomadic herders who moved frequently to look for pastures for their yaks. In between tiny settlements were vast stretches of nothingness, just exhaustingly rugged terrain - but this is how they preferred it. They were supposed to be ghosts here, so the less civilization the better.

At last they crossed the border into Tajikistan, but as they finally set their sights on the compound, the weather swiftly deteriorated. Clouds settled low, bringing a sudden mixture of hail and howling winds. Lightning flashed, and the storm crescendoed as thunder rumbled deeply overheard. Clay's nose burned in the frigid air, but he could hardly feel it. A surge of hot, electrifying adrenaline thrummed from his very core.

This was it. Manila had bucked him off the horse, but tonight was the night to get back in the saddle, prove his worth to his brothers.

Little did he know, with each forward step towards the compound, he drew closer and closer towards the moment that would change his life, quite possibly forever.

###

Please be kind as I'm dipping my toes for the first time in SEAL waters. All reviews will be eagerly read and so greatly appreciated.


	2. Fallout

**Notes**:

So, ya'll really know how to welcome a new writer to the fandom. :) Thank you everyone. You inspired the muse to dig deep for this chapter and write it quickly.

Anon reviews were accidentally disabled on the first day I posted. That's been fixed. Also, two things I learned while researching for this chapter: Bamm-Bamm has two m's and combat medicine isn't pretty… at all. With that said, here's a big, flashing warning for those who are squeamish: this chapter gets a bit gory with detail and medical talk, however I don't envision the future chapters getting worse than this one.

You'll also see some OC's in this chapter to round out Alpha Team: Dustin Fossett, Keith Shorey, and Mike Fellows.

& a **huge** thank you to my beta Lauren2381 who so graciously helped with some sticky areas in this chapter. Much love you, as well as my friends over on the SEAL Team Discord.

Please enjoy!

**Chapter 2: Fallout**

There was a man in the corner, and he held a rifle pointed directly at Ray Perry.

But Ray's reflexes were quicker than his. A muted _pop pop _issued from his own HK and the tango dropped heavy and lifeless to the ground, ruby red blood saturating his pajamas. The room plunged into an eerie silence; within seconds he had the very last bedroom on the fourth floor cleared and he joined his leader out in the hallway. The 2IC's body was physically thrumming from the fury and whirlwind of combat. He lived for these missions: not a single hitch on infil and they'd breezed through clearing the terrorist's labyrinth. Their absolute domination of the takeover felt electric.

Ray reached out his fist and he shared a quick fist bump with Jason. "What's our next move, bossman? Any word on our hostages?"

"Nothing yet. Full Metal just said fifth and sixth floors are secured, they have Ilyos Yusufi, but he's down with a shot to the leg," Jason said indifferently; their HVT was a particularly bad motherfucker. As long as he didn't die before handing him off to the CIA, he deserved the suffering. "Dustin Fossett is rendering aid."

Ray nodded. He knew Dusty to be a just-as-capable medic as their own, who could easily handle a gunshot wound. "You hear from the others?"

Jason shook his head and called for a SITREP from his team. Brock and Trent radioed in from the third floor, instantly obeying his command: they reported an all clear, but no sign of those that they'd been there to rescue. While he waited for communication from Bravo Three and Six, Full Metal came down the stairs. In typical fashion he was unflappable, a clear sign that things were in control on the upper levels. "Keith has the women and children secured in the far bedroom. The HVT's gonna make it, but the damn pansy won't quit screaming. Dusty wants to put a security round in him just to shut him up."

"Any sign of the Mendoza's?" Ray asked.

There was a beat of silence, then, "Mike found Erik Mendoza in the upstairs bathtub. Dead no longer than a day and a half, he's still in rigor mortis. No sign of the wife."

Jason's jaw muscle ticked, lips flattening into an angry line.

They'd lost him by the slightest margin. "_Dammit_."

"Bravo One, this is Three, I'm on the second level," Sonny at last called over his comm. He was breathless and sounded… off. "I need some help down here. We, uh, we got a problem."

The budding anger he'd felt about their hostage suddenly unfurled into something much more intense. Because Tier One operators could handle themselves and most of the shit they came across. So calling out for a problem? That meant complications. Bad ones.

A cold shiver ran up his spine and his eyes snapped to Full Metal's.

"Go," Full Metal said. "I'll take care of upstairs and keep the perimeter secured."

Jason nodded to him, then barked into his comm to Three, "Coming to you."

He briskly moved down the stairs with Ray at his heels. On his way down, he called out again over the comms for Clay, still acutely aware their kid hadn't responded. "Six, what's your location?" _Nothing_. "Spenser, SITREP. Now!"

Clay could be a pain in the ass; he could be cocky and difficult, but he was never sloppy. To go completely radio silent? He wouldn't, it was that simple.

Together, they all met Sonny on the second floor. The sight through Jason's NVGs showed nothing but an empty hallway and Sonny at the far end of it. A toothpick of a boy, no older than three, clutched at Sonny's vest, sharp heels digging into his hips as he sobbed. The child had buried his head into Three's throat, skin on skin, and as they drew nearer they saw a small trail of blood coming from a cut on his temple.

"What happened?" Jason demanded.

"Jahangeer heard the shots upstairs, tried to squirt and use him as a shield," Sonny said, referring to the boy. "I got him cornered, had to take the shot. He was gonna shoot the kid. Haven't been able to do a good search for Clay with him like this. You know it ain't like him to go silent, boss."

The growl that came from Jason in response to Sonny's explanation felt foreign. His emotions had swelled so suddenly, a red haze of growing anger which had nothing to do with the op that was quickly spiraling. Because he could handle the ugliness that came with certain mission failures, but he damn well couldn't deal with a missing man. Not Clay.

"Ray," he snapped, needing an end to the child's loud sobs so he could think. "Take care of the kid."

"Give him here," Ray pushed past Jason and took the boy gently into his arms. "I'll bring him upstairs with the others. Easy, little man, let's go find your momma and take care of that cut, okay? That's it, you just relax now..."

"What the hell, Sonny. Did I or did I not tell you to keep an eye on Six on his first few missions back? How the fuck did you lose him?" Jason said maybe a bit too harshly. But Sonny just pushed past him, heading towards the opposite end of the hallway. "Sonny!"

And then the Texan went very, very still.

In the far corner of the farthest room, their female hostage laid bound on her side. There was a gunshot to her neck and her eyes were glazed open and sightless. But Sonny wasn't looking at her. Instead, his eyes were at his boots where, just inside the threshold of the room, was a helmet, discarded on its side, NVGs cracked. Blood splattered the doorjamb, the wood wet and splintered.

"Fuck," Sonny said, half choking on the word. "Jason."

Jason's eyes flitted to the helmet and then their downed hostage. Coupled with Spenser's ongoing silence, more bodies meant more trouble. Especially bodies that weren't Bravo Six.

"Six, give me a SITREP!" Jason said in a last, futile attempt over his comm.

"Boss! We got one at the bottom of the stairs, he wasn't here before," Brock called hastily from the stairwell. He was being yanked downward by Cerb's leash. "Looks like Ashur, he's dead."

Jason kept his grip tight on his rifle as he advanced down the steps to the first floor after Brock. Sonny and Trent followed them closely.

###

From behind, Trent could see the stiffness in Jason's shoulders, knew from that sign alone that their leader was unsettled. That same uneasiness stirred in the pit of Trent's stomach as they reached the first floor where he came to Ashur's splayed body. He nudged him with the tip of his steel-toe boots, took in the sightless eyes and knife buried to the hilt in his neck, didn't even bother with a pulse check. Satisfied the insurgent was dead, Trent turned his eyes to the hallway, and -

Air left him in a rush.

NVGs aiding to penetrate the murk, Four saw the outline of a body. The sight was a suckerpunch, violent and visceral, because right there in front of him...

Was Clay.

And blood.

So much blood.

Their kid was seemingly only upright by leaning against the wall, knees bent and wobbling like they were made of jelly. Even in his green-tinted vision, Clay's complexion was waxen and shocky-looking, marred by running sheets of dark fluid down his face. Some of that blood and threads of spittle twirled off Clay's lips as he panted for air.

Wild blue eyes flickered back and forth, having trouble tracking and finding the four faces that'd suddenly rushed to the doorway. His Sig was aimed somewhere to the right of Sonny, the barrel trembling as he fought to stay standing. His right index finger was poised against the trigger.

"Whoa, whoa Clay!" Sonny balked and slammed his forearm into the nearest body he could reach - Brock - shoving him backwards. "Hey Wonder Boy, it's us. You know us. Take your finger off the trigger there."

"Get baack," the kid slurred. He slumped even further into the wall, head sagging as sweaty, bloody curls fell across his forehead. But the sidearm aimed higher and though it was still off mark, his intent was made.

At them.

"St-stay… th'fuck back. I'll, um, I," Clay forced out past an uncooperative tongue, sounds jumbling on the way out as if he couldn't speak. "I'll, I'll _shoot_."

Jason had been right on Sonny's heels and despite the threat he charged forward. "Drop your weapon, Spenser. That's an order."

Clay's eyes squeezed shut, he teetered dizzily, and that was their cue - the rest of them collectively moved in together. Jason and Trent managed to reach him at the same time. Their leader snatched the gun barrel and his other hand squeezed Clay's wrist, twisting it with just enough pressure that he released the weapon. Jason shoved the pistol over to Sonny to handle. At the same time, Trent's transition from assaulter to medic was seamless as he gripped Clay's shoulder, squeezed, eyes quickly taking in the most obvious head injuries: significant bleeding from wounds at his eyebrow, temple, cheekbone, lip. General puffiness and swelling, and blood dripping from his nose and mouth. Eyes that couldn't focus on anything.

"What happened, Spenser? Jesus, let me look at you."

"Um, I.." he looked down at his belly. "I need.. need t'go, I-"

"Hey, whoa," and up close, Jason could see that there was more than just head trauma. Clay's belly, groin, and upper thighs were saturated in blood. A thick, coppery scent washed over him, enough to turn his stomach.

"You're not going anywhere. You need to lay down and let me see where you're bleeding from. Come on." Trent tried to guide him down but Clay was having none of it. He jerked backwards, flush against the wall, looked to the doorway like he was going to bolt. Trent growled, "Boss," that one word having enough meaning to convey his message. Years of unspoken communication between them had Jason moving into position.

"I got his upper. You get his legs," Jason said.

"Watch his head," the medic muttered, repositioning himself. No time for gentleness but still mindful of the injuries they could see, the two of them grappled with their brother. Sonny shoved in a second later, grabbing Clay around his waist as Trent swiped his legs out from under him. In two seconds flat they had him down and immediately, blood pooled and began to collect on the ground. Their hands were coated with it.

"Where the _fuck _is this blood coming from? Clay, stop moving, let me see," Trent hissed and ripped off his NVGs. "I need light over here!"

Headlamps split through the darkness with Clay in the spotlight.

Jason was already tearing the velcro of his tac-vest open. He leaned down, used his teeth to split the collar of Clay's shirt and then ripped it completely down the middle. Trent had taken sheers and made quick work of Clay's weapons belt, thigh holster, pants and boxer briefs, all while saying, "Listen here, buddy. I'm going to check you out, nothing personal, got it?"

A second later, their kid was fully exposed from neck to knees in the center of their small circle. _Trauma Naked,_ as the old saying went; there was no such thing as modesty on the battlefield, not with hidden injuries and this much blood. Clay's chest hitched with every frenetic inhale and red soaked the planes of Clay's belly, groin and thighs but…

"Clay," Sonny said raggedly. "Oh God."

There.

"Trent?" Jason choked out.

_Sonuva_...

_This was bad_, Trent thought with a sharp exhale and the visual assessment left him actually stunned. The medic hadn't felt out of his element in a long time - years even. He'd treated more gunshot wounds than he could count. Blast lung, shattered bones, limbs blown off and made to stumps. But this?

The wound was gaping open, his viscous organs right there. _Clay's organs_.

_Right fucking there_.

The gash was at least six inches. Distally, near his hip, the wound was deep and he could see bits of milky-white bone. It gushed freely, the hemorrhage a dark red, steady flow. A venous bleed. Proximally, towards his naval, the wound was a bit more shallow. It'd cut through layers of fat, muscle and the thin, stretchy layer of peritoneum that enclosed his insides...

And emerging from Spenser's rigid, heaving abs were curls of bowel like one of his wife's pink Peonies in full bloom.

Clay turned his head towards Trent, eyes glassy and unfocused, as if he wasn't sure what was happening. The gaze hit him like a physical blow and he was pulled back in time to Clay, prone on the asphalt in Manila, in a stupor and bleeding out from his leg, _dying_. The parallels between now and the bomb blast were uncanny, left him reeling.

_Pull yourself together, Sawyer. He needs you._

So Trent harnessed his emotions and profuse shock, pulled them painfully into check. Then steeling his nerves, he didn't stop to feel or plan, he simply acted.

Detached.

Had to, because the man below him was no longer his little brother, he was a patient. You couldn't fall apart on your patients.

He found his voice, had just enough in him to bury the tremor. "Jesus, you've done yourself in good this time."

Likely sensing the faint movement of air on bare his skin and the shock of those above him, Clay slowly emerged from the daze he'd been in. Eyes were half-mast, but his pupils were so fully dilated that that blue color was completely swallowed despite the bright lights from their helmets.

Shock.

Head trauma.

_Likely both_.

"Sonny, get over here, put on these gloves. We need to stop this bleeding," Trent said. He'd already tore open his med bag, yanked on a pair of black latex gloves. He ripped open packs of HemCon and started packing the gauze into the deepest part of the wound by Clay's hip, trying to plug the bleeder.

Battlefield medicine wasn't pretty, mostly because hemorrhaging always took priority - and oftentimes you couldn't avoid the barbarous, brutal care that was necessary to control it. Only after that was managed would he begin to do other assessments, treat the less serious wounds. All of that always trumped IVs and it sure as hell trumped pain medicine. It might been ass-backwards to civilian medicine, but this was what saved lives in combat.

So though Clay's evisceration was gruesome and excruciating, it wasn't immediately life-threatening. It would have to be managed last.

The kid bucked weakly below his hands.

When he'd gotten a full roll of the hemostatic dressing packed into Clay's hip, he said to Sonny, "Okay, use the heel of your hand to press down hard. He's gonna scream but I don't care, don't let up pressure until I tell you, it's the only way we're going to stop the bleeding."

Teeth gritted, Sonny put his full weight into it, grew a little paler at the noise that gurgled out of Clay's throat.

"Whu-wait," Clay managed to grate out, eyes snapping open to dart at the silhouetted figures above him. He stiffened as a wave of red-hot agony swept over him, having been yanked from the tenuous and dream-like state of semiconscious he'd drifted into. Booted heels dragged but gained no purchase on the wood floor and when the attempt to get away failed, he curled his arms and _pushed_ at the searing fire lighting up his left hip.

"No! Clay, don't touch!" Trent ordered, still rifling through his med bag. "Jase, I need you to hold his hands before he contaminates that wound."

"Hey, none of that," Jason firmly interceded and took the younger man's wrists. He shuffled on his knees a little closer to Clay's head, trying to get in his line of sight. "You need to lie still, Spenser."

"B,boss?" came the gasped question from below him and the way Six said his name made his legs weak. He sounded like he did in the back of the ambulance in the Philippines, right before he'd lost consciousness for good that night. Maybe it was because his kid was typically so fearless and proud, that it made the few times he did break down his walls that much harder to bear witness. Jason was glad he was already kneeling. "_Shit_.. no, stop, you're hurr.. hurting.. me. I don' want... _stop_."

"You're going to be fine. We need to get the bleeding stopped so you're gonna feel some pressure," Jason glanced over his shoulder at Trent, who had seemed to unpack his entire medical kit, laying out supplies in easy reach. "What do you need, Four?"

"Just keep his hands outta here," he answered dismissively. Then to Five he said, "Brock, take this gauze, hold it to that gash above his eye, he's losing blood from there like a stuck pig."

Brock grabbed the dressing and slid to kneel above Clay's head, pressed hard on the wound. He used his knees to cushion the sides of the kid's head, keeping him still. Though head injuries bled like a bitch, _this_ was excessive and Trent needed to stop as much hemorrhaging that he could.

In the midst of their controlled chaos, their comms buzzed to life with Blackburn on the other end, requesting their status.

Jason took a breath, shifted both of Clay's wrists into one grip and then keyed his comm. "HAVOC, this is Bravo One. We have Ilyos secured. Jahangeer and both hostages are deceased. Multiple women and children have been detained. Compound is secure, Alpha has the perimeter and is completing the search for intel. Bravo Six is injured, we're rendering aid."

"Understood, Bravo One," though Blackburn's reply was steady as ever, there was a split second pause. "How is he?"

"We're at least looking at head and abdominal trauma, significant bleeding. We need immediate evac," then he looked down at Six, whose face was scrunched with pain as he tried to squirm away from them.

"Standby, Bravo One," Blackburn said.

Hands trembling, Clay fumbled for a halt to the pain and noise around him, and when Jason wouldn't let go of his wrists, he latched onto his boss' fingers instead. "S-stop. I- I think… _wrong_."

"What's wrong, buddy?"

"The, the _bomb_, Jase. I think, I, - it's… here. Where's'the _bomb_?"

"Bomb?" then to his medic, "Trent, you hearing this?"

Supplies unpacked and ready and with his stethoscope on, Trent nodded and shimmied closer to Clay. "Listen, Spenser. Looks like you took an impressive nosedive down the stairs and that's why things aren't making much sense right now. You just have to relax a second while I take a look over your chest, all right?" He quickly listened to each lobe of his lungs and then with gloved hands, he palpated along his chest, feeling for fractures or the Rice Krispy feeling of displaced air that would indicate a pneumothorax. A sound of relief escaped his throat - at least one thing was going right for the kid. "You've got some impressive bruising along your ribs, but nothing's broken and no tension pneumo. That's good, brother," he said loudly to try to break through Clay's increasing agitation. He had a knack for talking to downed vics, knew it helped push down their panic and keep their attention. And if he could keep Clay speaking, he would know without taking extra precious seconds that his airway was still patent and open.

"So here's what's going to happen," he continued, calm and deliberate, draping the stethoscope around his neck. One hand swiped Clay's bare chest with an antiseptic wipe, the other grabbed a FAST1. "I need to get some fluids in you but you're shocky, which means getting an IV or A-line will be tough. We're going to do a sternal intraosseous infusion instead, it's a lot quicker. We did an IO on our hostage last year, you helped me set the tubing. Remember that, Spenser? Tell me what country that was in, I can't remember the location."

An unintelligible murmur fell from Clay's lips.

"Didn't hear that, bud, gonna have to say it louder," Jason admonished lightly, trying to keep Clay conscious.

" 'raq?" he pushed the word past a thick and uncooperative tongue.

"Almost got it. Was Aleppo," Trent deflected, knew that had Clay been in his right mind, he'd never have missed the answer. "All right, listen here. You're going to feel a pinch in your chest in a minute. Go ahead and look up at Brock's pretty eyes for me."

Clay's eyes skirted up but he couldn't see anything past the blinding light of a headlamp. "Brrock?"

"The one and only," came the warm, undeniable voice of Five directly above him. "We're going to get you feeling better in no time, brother. Cerb, c'mere, lay down right here."

"Huh?" Clay moved his head a little, felt the hard rubber of knee pads on either side of his head and then suddenly Cerb's wet nose at his neck.

"Hand it to me. Yeah, I got it. Okay, open up, Clay," Brock said.

"Whu'...?"

Then something soft was pushing into his mouth. "C'mon, open."

"Wha'... sto..p," Clay whimpered. He winced, moaned, trying to close his mouth like a baby that didn't want to eat. But Brock was somehow firm and gentle at the same time, managed to slip the wadded up roll of gauze between his teeth.

"Bite on that."

Trent felt along Spenser's sternum, found the sternal notch, stuck the adhesive-backed foam patch down on his skin and pressed down firmly to seal it tight. "Jase, Sonny, need you to watch him," he flicked a warning glance up at them both, the message unmistakable: _It's going to hurt. Bad. Hold him tight... no, much tighter_. Trent grabbed the introducer tool, pressed the cluster of needles into position against Clay's skin and then in the next second, pushed hard and deep to penetrate the bone.

Clay screamed, raw and guttural.

Fresh agony swallowed him whole; it was so sudden and so violent that he was wholly unprepared for the onslaught. His vision blinked out and his body convulsed as if his pelvis had been jerked upwards by a puppeteer.

But above him, Jason and Sonny had been ready. They threw their weight into his, countering his arching body and pushed him to the floor.

"Easy, Clay!"

"There we go, there we go. All done, brother," Trent soothed as he hurriedly connected the IV tubing to the port and then adhered a clear plastic dome cover to protect the entire infusion site. And though he sounded unshaken, he was sure that the sight of Clay writhing below his hands would be ingrained in his mind, his nightmares, forever. "Guys, how's his bleeding doing?"

"Good here, too. You did good, little buddy," Sonny said as the kid keened below them. He peered down at Clay's gaping wound that had been packed full with gauze. The gauze itself was sopping and saturated, but blood was no longer running down the sides of his hips and groin.

Brock tossed the soaked wad from Clay's mouth and then lifted the piece of gauze at his temple, inspecting the wound. "Looks good, bleeding's let up."

"Okay, you're both good to leave them alone. Keep an eye on them though, if he starts bleeding again I'll have you hold pressure," and to Sonny he said: "Gonna need your help in a sec."

"Bravo One, this is HAVOC," Blackburn's voice crackled over their comms.

"Go for Bravo One."

"We've got a problem: your exfil is going to be delayed. We're looking at high winds, dense fog, and hail; it's rendering us near-zero visibility on the mountain. Bottom line, you'll need to hunker down until it passes enough to get a bird to you."

Anger won over rationality and Jason's words couldn't be held back. "You've gotta be _shitting_ me."

They had no sure exit and his kid was bleeding out. Actively dying.

And there was nothing he could do about it.

###

I split this chapter up because I couldn't find the right place to end. I'll post the next chapter soon… that is, if you'd like more!


	3. Trigger

Thank you for your comments - I loved every, single one. I hope you enjoy reading the whump as much as I enjoyed writing it!

X

"We've got a problem: your exfil is delayed. We're looking at high winds, dense fog, and hail; it's rendering us near-zero visibility on the mountain. Bottom line, you're gonna have to hunker down until it passes enough to get a bird to you."

Anger won over rationality and Jason's words couldn't be held back. "You've gotta be _shitting_ me."

Sonny was livid, disbelief evident in his bright eyes. "Sonuva… Candy-ass pilots."

They had no sure exit and their kid was bleeding out. Actively dying.

In a split second, Jason did the only thing he could do: saw the variables, pulled them together and planned.

"Can't do that, HAVOC. We can't confirm reinforcements weren't called in before we got the drop. We're sitting ducks up here," he hissed out. "There's an old farmhouse northeast of here, about a kilometer from the border. We'll stabilize Six, make our way there, and hold out until the boys come get us."

"Roger, Bravo One. We'll be in contact and get the chopper to you as soon as we can."

"HAVOC, this is Bravo Four," Trent said into his comm. "We need a consult with the med team, I need to know how to proceed with our casualty."

It wasn't very often that Trent called for direction but he'd also never treated this type of abdominal trauma, let alone with evac so delayed.

"Bravo Four, I'll get the trauma team on the other line. What's the status of your casualty?"

"Bravo Six has sustained a concussion and an abdominal evisceration. He's conscious but disoriented and suffering from moderate blood loss. We've established an IO, running wide open with normal saline. Need to know how to proceed with the evisceration before we move out: pack it back in and suture, or cover and wrap?"

"Stand by, Bravo Four."

"Hey, Trent…" Brock's attention flicked up to Trent, looking anxious and sounding hesitant - something which was _so_ _not Brock_ that Trent immediately refocused on him. "He's got some fluid coming out of his ears."

"You've got to be fucking _shitting_ me," Trent cursed, echoing Jason from a minute earlier. He dropped the pack of gauze he'd just grabbed and dove for Clay's head. A gloved hand tilted his head from side to side, putting his ears under the glow of their handlamps. Sure enough, small trails of clear fluid dripped down the shell of his ears and into his curly, blood-soaked hair. Under the tips of his fingers which cradled the base of Clay's skull there was a large, swollen bump.

And suddenly everything made a hell of a lot of sense.

"What's that mean? The fluid?" Sonny was anything but small in stature but he sounded it from where he sat, leaning close. "What's wrong with him?"

"It's cerebrospinal fluid. He's got a skull fracture," Trent said bluntly, and anything that Sonny had left to say dried up on his tongue, throat constricting painfully.

Trent thumbed open each of Clay's eyes, studied the pupillary reactions to his headlamp. "Pupils are sluggish."

Trent had treated every injury and illness of Clay's since he'd joined their unit, and the kid's symptoms were unfailingly plain and predictable. He knew to expect that small injuries brought exaggerated whining, that stomach bugs and headaches brought stillness, and that simple head injuries brought stunned placidity.

He'd been so engrossed by the shock of Clay's other injuries that he'd overlooked the one glaring distinction of this head trauma: pleading, slurring, babbling? This was far worse than a simple concussion.

He should have known better. He _did_ know better.

It was too unnerving.

He didn't want to think about it more, and surely didn't want to linger on the very real possibility that this could end with a final salute and his kid six feet under.

"Damnit, Spenser."

Clay winced at Trent's rough treatment of his head. His throat throat issued a weird, groaning gasp of a sound, and he finally strung words together. "Tren'? What.. what's, happ-ening?"

Jason looked over, saw the way their typically nonplussed medic was clenching his jaw, and he stepped in. "Listen, Spenser. I know you're confused right now but you gotta stay calm. Remember we went over this earlier? You took the fast way down some stairs and you hit your head, that's why things aren't making sense," Jason said, though most of his attention was now back at Trent, who had recollected himself and was back on comms with TOC.

"Negative on the blood transfusion, none of us are a match," Trent answered Blackburn. "He's draining cerebrospinal fluid from both ears now. But bowel is a good color - pink. I'm not seeing any leakage or bleeding from inside the abdomen itself, our only bleeder was from his pelvis which is now controlled - priority is now the head injury."

"Copy, Bravo Four," Blackburn said, "our med team here has advised the best course of action is for you to wash the bowel with saline, then pack it back into the abdomen and close the wound with staples. He's to have no meds or water by mouth, but you have pain meds you can give him by injection."

"Boss?" Clay asked hoarsely, frowning when he saw his leader's face through the blinding beams of light above him. He shifted restlessly on the floor. "What… happened? Shit, whe'.. where'm'I?"

Jason briefly closed his eyes and clenched his jaw against the fear that began to bubble deep in his belly. He repeated again, "You fell down some stairs, Clay."

"Fell?" Clay repeated, uncertain. He stared up at his team above him as if he'd only just now become aware of their presence and he immediately got a little bit more alert. His fragmented thoughts rushed in hard and fast, but nothing clicked solidly together… he was on the hard ground. His brothers were overhead, deep lines of worry on their faces. He felt a bone-deep weakness and he hurt everywhere.

It was Manila all over again, his worst nightmare, and _once again he'd let down his team_.

Fuck.

He would have fucking none of that.

_Not weak, not hurt, get up get up get up get up..._

Clay vigorously shook his head, as much as Brock's knees would allow him, booted heels dragged against the floor as he was instilled with a disorientating, crushing panic. "Wait, wa,wait… lemme up, I'm.. b-boss? M'fine. I, uh… m'fine, m'not hu-hurt 'gain," he stammered, breath coming in rapid gasps. He tried to lock eyes with his brothers above him but everything was too unsteady and his mind disconnected to another place in time again. "The-they're here.. I ca-can't let… you down… 'gain. I think, bomb.. Lemme up! We gotta.. go!"

Jason and Trent exchanged a glance, only holding it a second because, despite his injuries, Clay found a sudden surge of strength and rolled hard to the left.

"NO!" They all cried in unison. Jason and Brock pushed him down by the shoulders while Sonny got his legs, sending Clay back down to the floor reeling in pain. The movement had disturbed the packed gauze in his hip, sending rivers of red blood down the sides of his pelvis.

"Fuck, Clay, stay still!" Trent ordered as he scrambled to add more gauze into the distal end of the wound. With his other gloved hand and a wide sheet of gauze, he braced Clay's organs in place. The medic took a breath, talked through it for his own sake. "_Dammit. _We need to stop him from moving, stabilize this wound or he's gonna bleed out. And this has to stay clean or we'll be looking at some serious infection. Kneel on his shoulders if you have to, but for fuck's sake, keep him down. Swear to Christ, Spenser, after we haul your ass out of here, I'm gonna start billing you personally for a damn frequent flyer fee."

"Brock, trade places with me," Sonny said, and the two of them quickly switched. Sonny crouched low, looking down into his brother's ghostly pale complexion and the fear in his eyes.

"Hey there, Bamm-Bamm," he said. "What's this I hear about you giving our medic trouble?"

"Sonny?"

"That's me, your favorite Sonny Quinn."

But Clay ignored him, tried to pull his hand free from Jason's iron-like grip, wanting to find his spare pistol in his thigh holster. "Need… m-my gun. Give it t'me. They, they're here."

"And just what do you think you need your gun for, kiddo? We schwaked all our tangos just a minute ago. No need for your pistol."

"No…" Clay fought to get on his side again. There was a muffled _Jesus! Hold him!_ from Trent, who, with Brock's help, scrambled to hold pressure against his abdomen. "Gimme mmmy gun. They, they're still here. St-still here.. Y-you need… backup," then with an explosive exhalation of air that sprayed blood and saliva, he cried, "Sonny!"

"It's okay. You're okay," Sonny soothed. His touch was light as he smoothed Clay's hair back, kept his expression neutral, even though inwardly he was freaking-the-fuck-out. "Relax, brother, c'mon."

As if it was that easy.

As if it was even possible that a person with their guts hanging out and their head split open could just relax and keep still.

"_Clay, stand down_!" Jason bellowed. Those words in particular should've cut through the mounting panic, but there was nothing. Clay's body fought against the hands that pinned him down - chest heaved, sweat mixed with older blood that beaded down his face and neck.

"Sonny, give it to him!" Trent hissed.

"Hold him good, Jase," Sonny said breathlessly. Once he was sure Jason had Clay's upper body secured, he let go and seized the kid's Sig that he'd shoved into his waistband. He released the mag, pulled the slide back to clear the chamber. Once he was sure the pistol was unloaded he took Clay's hands into his own, molding the shaking hands around the cold metal.

"Easy now, easy. Here ya go, kid," Sonny said, leaning close. "You feel that? That's your pistol. I need you to calm down and watch my six, we clear? You gonna watch my six, little buddy?"

Finally settled, Clay hummed low in his throat. He blinked up at him, detached. "Yeah."

"That's good. That's real good, Clay. Now listen here, you're hurt, but Trent is gonna fix you up and have you feeling better in no time, don't you worry."

Clay's left hand dropped to the floor with a thud. His right, holding this pistol, was shaking from the weight of the weapon. He let it fall to his bare chest but his grip was true, finger poised carefully over the trigger. His eyes slitted open, looking tiredly around the room for danger. It was taking everything in him to stay conscious but his mission wasn't over. He still had his team to watch.

###

With his kid now cooperative, Trent released a sharp breath. Him and Brock had finally gotten the bleeding back under control and so now they could focus on taking care of the evisceration and pain control. It still hadn't escaped him that they needed to move quickly - though they were in a rural setting and the storm would hamper any enemy reinforcements, they didn't know for how long.

Trent grabbed an autoinjector out of his med bag.

"Okay, brother, I think it's about time for some pain relief, what do you think?" He kept up the quiet conversation as he worked. "Brock, hold this here, keep counterpressure on his belly as I tilt him. Clay, I'm gonna roll you to your side, give you a stick in your hip. Let us do all the work. Jason, get his shoulders, we're gonna move him towards me on three. Ready? One, two, three…"

After a quick alcohol wipe on his exposed skin he injected the ketamine, counted to ten and then rubbed the gluteal muscle with the heel of his palm. Clay noticeably relaxed as they moved him back flat, but his grip remained steady on the pistol.

"How's that, Clay? Scale of 1-10," he asked as he lifted Brock's hands away, briefly checking under the gauze to make sure nothing had shifted.

" 'm good," Spenser slurred. All the fight was fleeing him, leaving behind a worn weariness that made it difficult to even string words together.

"Give me a number on your pain."

"Wha'... n'mber?"

"Scale of 1-10 for your pain, Clay," Trent repeated again.

"Mmm… two."

He seemed satisfied for the moment. "You let me know if it gets worse, got it?"

"That's an order, Spenser," Jason added.

"Mmm 'k," Clay murmured, then swallowed tensely.

Trent eyed him, knew that look. "You nauseous?"

There was a second pause and then Clay, suddenly pale, nodded slowly. Trent rummaged quickly through his med bag, grabbing another injector. _Should've prepared it earlier_, he groused to himself, because he knew that narcotics made the kid nauseous. With a quick stick, he dosed him with Ondansetron. "Sorry, buddy. That should help soon."

The effects of both drugs were nearly instant; Trent was grateful, considering what they were about to make him go through. Their youngest's eyes blinked heavily upwards. His grip faltered, slid off his Sig.

"I'm gonna take your pistol, Clay," Sonny said gently. He tucked the weapon back into his waistband and then placed his palm on his shoulder, squeezed. "You did a good job watching my six, now it's my turn."

"Wait.. bu-buut.. we good?" Clay's gaze sluggishly tracked around the room, counting faces.

"Team's all here," Jason said. "Ray's upstairs but he'll be down in a minute. We're good, Spenser, you can stand down."

Sonny leaned closer, said in a soothing drawl, "We smoked 'em and now we're gonna get you tucked in nice and cozy and I bet the next time you wake up, you'll be sipping on apple juice and gettin' a sponge bath from one of those pretty Chair Force nurses at Bagram. How's that sound?"

Clay made a noise of agreeance from the back of his throat. His whole world shifted out of focus, body growing numb, but Sonny went on above him, calm and unwavering. He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes… he felt the tug of unconsciousness and then he felt nothing at all.

X

Comments feed the whump muse!


	4. Choices

**Some notes: **Thank you everyone for your patience and your continued support, and thank you to Lauren for being so kind to beta! Since it's been awhile, so I'll give you a quick recap…

During Clay's first mission back since the bombing in Manila that nearly sidelined his career, he was feeling an insurmountable pressure to regain his brother's confidence in him. Bravo and Alpha Team's (_with OC's Dustin Fossett, Keith Shorey, and Mike Fellows_) had hiked through the Wakhan Corridor, Afghanistan and over the border to Tajikistan to get to an enemy compound. Their mission was simple: to recover two American hostages (_the Mendoza's_) and snatch two high-level drug trafficking HVT's (_brothers Jahangeer and Ilyos Yusufi_). After reaching the compound, though, the weather quickly deteriorated and their mission unraveled; their hostages and Jahangeer were killed, and Clay was viciously attacked by an enemy insurgent (_Ashur_). Clay is now barely lucid and in and out of consciousness from his injuries, and has been hallucinating the explosion from Manila. Their evac is delayed due to the storm. That's where this chapter picks up…

Small warning that the beginning of this chapter includes a brief mention of maternal mortality.

* * *

Resiliency was a remarkable thing.

When Sahba's mother died during childbirth, the first thing she did, after coaxing her baby brother to take his first fluttery breaths, was snip the umbilical cord that tethered him to her mother's still body and wipe his body of sticky white vernix.

She then swaddled baby Imam and sat in the corner of the room, rocking him, as her father collapsed into her mother's bosom with violent sobs. Despite her own resolve not to cry from the shock of suddenly being motherless and to persevere for her family's sake, there were a few stray tear tracks on her cheeks.

At nine years old, she was now the head woman of her household. She was neither prepared for the sudden duty that came with this or the earth-shattering heartache. But as her brother opened his big brown eyes for the first time and let out a tiny squall, she decided right there and then that she would do everything she could to make her mother proud.

It was now autumn, a Saturday that verged on the cusp of the Winter Solstice, and many months after her mother had passed. Sahba's footsteps crunched and her ankles sunk deeply into the snow. She couldn't hear over the screeching wind, and she certainly couldn't see, either, for all of her usual landmarks were hidden behind a wall of white that so densely swirled. Even the yaks and goats, normally acclimated to the grueling Wakhan winter, huddled close together in their pens. She gave each animal a pat on the nose and then covered their backs with a threadbare blanket. As the gale hurtled snowflakes like projectiles around the stable, she milked the animals and then begin her short trek to the nearby glacial stream; her family would need water, and she wasn't sure how long this storm would last.

The storm had taken her family by surprise. She knew that because her father had had to scramble to corral the herd from the far pastures where they grazed before they got trapped in high snow. The skies were often angry and unpredictable in the winter, but it was still harvest season for another month.

It scared her. They were not prepared.

Anything and anyone caught in a storm like this unprepared could easily catch their death.

* * *

Resiliency was a remarkable thing.

Despite the magnitude of trauma, Clay was somehow coping. Trent wasn't sure how that was possible - how a man with a head injury, blood loss and serious abdominal trauma still had adequate vital signs, but he wasn't going to question the kid's impressive resolve.

After cleaning Clay's belly with a red-orange Betadine solution, he tugged on a new pair of sterile gloves and gave a quick thanks to whoever was watching over them that Clay had drifted off, his diminished consciousness level keeping him from feeling most of the pain.

"Let's hustle, Trent. We don't have much time here," Jason said. With a credible threat of hostiles inbound, they needed to move and find safety.

_Safety,_ which was over a kilometer away in near-blizzard conditions. Dangerous in and of itself, without having to drag two dead American hostages, an HVT with a gimp leg, and their non-ambulatory, very ill brother.

Trent was silently fuming, though; he needed for more time to be thorough and treat _all_ of Clay's injuries and instead was forced to acquiesce with cut corners.

"Bravo Two and all Alpha Elements, this is Bravo One. We need you down on first deck," and then to Trent, "Talk to me. How's he looking? We gonna be able to pack him up securely and go?"

"Barely," Trent clipped out, staying focused on the task at hand. He'd just rinsed the loose loops of Clay's bowel with saline and carefully set them back into his abdomen. While pinching the sliced skin together, he took the staple gun and started at Clay's hip, working upward. It was a temporary fix but would hopefully keep Clay's bowel from becoming ischemic until they got to a hospital.

Below him, the kid twitched a little and pulled in a ragged, whimpering breath, beginning to rouse again from the added pain. Jason's jaw clenched. A vulnerable Clay had always been hard for him to handle; all it did was remind him of how near-impossible it was to protect his brothers, especially their youngest. He felt half sick at the possible implications of cutting short Clay's medical care, but their mission and his entire team's safety were just as important.

"You're doing good, brother," he murmured.

Trent said, "Brock, I need you to fix a stretcher. I remember there being a long enough table in the kitchen, just break off the legs and we can carry him on that. Jase, get Fossett down here, I'm gonna need his help."

"Copy," and Brock left the room to do just that, Cerb following at his heels. Jason grabbed his comm and called out over the radio for Alpha's dual medic-assaulter.

"Jase? 'rent?" Clay murmured. His gaze slid over to Trent and he looked up at him, partly in pain and partly in confusion. "Stop."

"Hey, buddy, I'm all done. I know that hurt like hell, I just need you to hang on until we can get the good stuff in you," Trent soothed as he taped a piece of gauze over the entire wound. "Now where else are you in pain? I know your belly hurts, and I know I just made it worse, but where else?... C'mon, buddy, focus on me, we don't have much time… I gotta know before we load you up. Head? Back?"

"My head. And… chest? Hurts.. t'breathe," Fumbling hands reached for his chest, going directly for the sternal IO. "It hurts."

Trent intercepted the searching fingers. "Ah, ah, ah. Don't touch. I know that hurts, but you can't touch it. We've got some fluids going in through a chest port and you've got some bruising from that fall you took," he calmly explained as he started to do a quick evaluation. "What else, Clay? Where else you hurting? Does any of this hurt?"

Already aware of Clay's head injury, Trent forgoed another inspection of that and instead slipped his hands behind his neck. The pads of his fingers walked down Clay's c-spine, thankful that everything felt in place. But searching eyes found a different problem as he looked closer at the front of his neck. Warm bruising - far warmer than the surrounding clammy skin. "Damn. Ashur must've choked him out… no swelling though, so let's keep it that way. Sonny, grab two icepacks from my bag."

Sonny let out a growl at the thought of yet another atrocity that'd happened to his kid. Sharp, angry breaths flared his nostrils while he rummaged through the medic's bag.

Outside the room, footsteps thudded down the stairs and then Ray was there. "Jase? Jase, we've got a problem, we gotta get moving... hey, what the - _what happened_?" Ray called from the doorway as he entered, but his step nearly faltered when he saw them. "_Clay_?"

"Quiet, we just got him calmed down," Jason breathlessly interceded as he stumbled to his feet, took Ray by the arm and brought him back into the hall. His knee pads were shiny and soaked with blood. "What do you mean 'problem'? Give me a SITREP, Ray."

Ray tore his gaze away from the kid and rapidly took in Jason's pale and disheveled appearance. "We secured Ilyos and found a cell phone on him. Metal got it out of him that he called his uncle. Bad guys know we're here and they're on their way; they're coming from the closest infantry post, it's about 10 klicks north of our position. They can't drive in this storm so they'll be on foot. We've got some time, but not long - we've already lost 20 minutes."

Jason swore. "Any idea how many?"

"No, Ilyos's gone silent. But what's going on with the kid? Where's our evac?"

"Evac is delayed because of the storm, they got zero vis, no clue for how long, but with this area could be a day or longer. We can't sit here like sitting ducks, Ray. There's a farmhouse just a kilometer northeast from here, near the border. We can hide out until our bird can come."

Ray nodded thoughtfully, agreeing with the decision to haul ass out of there, _fast_. "Alpha is wrapping up the Mendoza's bodies now, then they'll be down. But Jase, c'mon, talk to me. How bad is Clay?"

Ray's beseeching stare cut into him so deeply that it left him without words, except… _Bad._ That was the only word he could form. Jason was used to the odds working against him but always managing to make it work. He took the bad and he handled it. It was part of the chaotic and bloody nature of leading a DEVGRU team - to overcome adversity and conflict, to handle warfare waged against the innocent and sometimes his own men.

As Ray leveled him with an iron stare and asked for answers and seemed to stare into his soul, he was hit with the realization that everything was crumbling right in front of him.

He'd lost his hostages and an HVT.

Multiple hostiles were inbound.

Their exfil was delayed as a treacherous storm raged outside. A storm that they'd be blindly hiking through in just minutes.

His medic, accustomed to treating lesser injuries and illnesses, was scrambling to perform amateur surgery on Clay, and Clay…

It was plain as day his kid already had a foot in the grave.

And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about _any_ of it.

The feeling left him reeling. Just barely managing to rein in his overwhelming, raw fear and he pushed out, "It's not good. He's got a skull fracture and… he's been eviscerated, Ray. He's confused - one minute he thinks he's back in the Philippines with the bomb, the next minute he's here but thinks the enemy's alive. Wants his gun to protect us."

"I'm sorry, did you say eviscerated?"

Jason wiped a hand over the weary lines that crinkled the edges of his eyes. "We need to get him out of here."

"Hey, your man still down? I brought Dusty," Full Metal came in through the door with Dustin Fossett at his heels, who wore a heavy backpack similar to Trent's. Fossett hurriedly bypassed them and crouched at Clay's chest, across from Trent.

"Yeah, he's still down," Jason managed to say, and then he keyed his comm. "TOC, this is Bravo One. Confirmed multiple hostiles inbound, and that's not our only problem."

* * *

"Hey, brother," Dustin said to Trent as he nearly vaulted over and knelt across from him. He unshouldered and opened his bag, slid on a pair of gloves. Leaning over Bravo Six with his close-cropped blonde hair, square jaw, and whisky-colored eyes, Dustin surveyed the stripped body, cataloguing every visible injury. Unfazed at the gore - the long, bloody piece of gauze taped from Clay's hip to belly, the sternal IO set in between deeply bruised ribs, he said, "Damn, what the fuck happened?"

Trent's gaze snapped up and met Fossett's and he let out a ragged exhale, one of veritable relief. There was a small piece inside of him that could relax a little, having Fossett there for backup. Alpha's dual medic-assaulter had the exuberance of a puppy, but he was highly professional. The two of them had actually worked together many years ago as corpsmen, and he held a high rapport for Fossett's skill set. "Jesus, Dusty, am I glad to see you," he whispered fiercely. "Our HVT Ashur brought a knife to a gunfight. Lots of trauma," and he saw Clay was staring lethargically up at them. "You wanted to test our skills today, isn't that right, brother?"

Clay didn't answer and then his gaze flicked around, not settling on anything in particular.

"Clay, we're sure lucky Dusty's with us tonight, huh?" Trent asked, trying to get the kid to respond. "He's the best medic I know and he's gonna help us get you packed up. You think you're ready to get out of here?"

"Running low on time, boys. We leave in five minutes," Jason said from the doorway.

"We'll pick up the pace," Dustin acknowledged. They'd make it work. Noting Clay's diminished level of consciousness, he pulled out his stethoscope. "What've we got for known injuries?"

"Evisceration, which I've washed, packed back in and stapled. Skull fracture, he's leaking cerebrospinal fluid. Bruised chest from the fall, I couldn't find any rib fractures, bruised neck from being choked. I'm sure there's more but we don't have time for a full eval."

Dustin whistled low. "Damn. Kid doesn't do things by halves, huh?" He pressed the bell of his stethoscope against Clay's weakly heaving chest and auscultated each lobe. Satisfied with his breath sounds, he slung it back around his neck. "Some decreased breath sounds, but there's no deviation of the trachea, no crepitus, percussion is good, so I think we're in the clear right now for a pneumo or effusion. Clay, can you talk to us? How'd you get hurt?"

Clay slowly found his gaze. He swallowed and remained silent, then looked to Trent, imploring.

"We're in Tajikistan on an op and we're getting ready to walk through a blizzard," he supplied, trying to reassure him with a wink that instead came off looking more like a tight grimace. He'd just gotten everything they needed for the trek outside and repacked his med bag. Called for Ray and Jason to collect extra blankets. Then, "You tangled with Ashur a little while ago and fell down the stairs."

"Ahh, I see. Is that how you got those bruised ribs?" Dustin asked to keep Clay's wheels turning. He clipped a portable oxygen monitor to Clay's index finger and watched the monitor intensely, but still spoke loud and calmly enough for Clay to hear; even if Clay couldn't understand what was going on, the pitch of his voice would help keep him settled. "But you took out that sonuvabitch good, didn't you, Spenser? I saw him at the bottom of the stairs with a blade in his neck."

"Damn straight he did," Sonny said, and thumbed Clay's cheek.

"O2's 94," Dustin said to Trent. They wouldn't need to worry unless his blood oxygenation levels started dropping below 90 percent.

"Good for now. Not that we have any oxygen if it drops too low," Trent muttered. They did however, have the supplies to intubate, which seemed more and more likely to happen with the way things were stacking up.

Below them, Clay garbled out a string of nonsensical words. Sonny cleared his throat and sounded pained when he asked softly, "What was that, little buddy?"

"You, you.. who?" Clay was staring up at Dusty again.

"Me?" Dustin asked, concerned. "Do you remember who I am, Spenser?"

".. Nuh."

Sonny punched out a breath. They'd worked ops alongside Dustin and Alpha Team for years.

"That's all good, brother," Dustin said reassuringly to both of them and still managed to sound unfazed. "I'm Dusty Fossett. I'm with Alpha Team, and I even helped you last time you got your back cut up in that blast two years back, remember that? And then when you got a little too hot in that Yemen desert. Oh and don't forget the time when you got e-coli from those chicken wings Sonny insisted on having in Pakistan. See? We've been through this a bunch already, there's nothin' we can't fix."

"D-Dussy.. Foss.. 'sett?"

"That's right, bud. Dusty Fossett. My ma named me after a dirty sink appliance. I know, I don't think she put much thought into what my nickname would be."

Sonny raised an eyebrow. He squeezed Clay's shoulder, played into the banter to keep Clay calm. "How'd I never catch that before?"

"C'mon now, I'm not giving any of y'all spare ammo," Dustin said with a grin, though that dipped when he saw Six's eyes now gazing off to the left, glassy and unaware. Consciousness was fading again. "C'mon, kid, stay with us."

"Two minutes, boys. How we doing?" Jason asked as he and Ray rejoined their group. He knelt down close, inspecting the scene. Brock and Cerb were right behind them; in Brock's hands was a long tabletop, with the legs snapped off to be used as a makeshift litter.

"He's as stable as he's gonna get for now. The bag of fluids is just finishing up, we'll switch out for our last bag right before we leave," Trent said as he finished sticking steristrips on the heaviest cuts on Clay's temple and cheek. "I'll need your help to get these clothes off of him before we bundle him up in blankets. His gear's wet from blood, and the last thing we need is him getting hypothermia while we walk through this shit."

Together, they worked to slice Clay's sleeves and pant legs down the middle. "Alright Brock, I'm ready for the board," Trent said. "Line it up alongside him. I need everyone to get a hand on him and on the count of three, we'll roll him. I'll brace his belly - Jase, I need you to hold pressure on his hip wound. Ready? One, two, three…" With practiced ease, something they'd done far too many times with an injured Clay, they turned him to his side so they could pull off the rest of his clothes and gear, leaving him in just his wool socks. Then, they slid the makeshift stretcher behind him and laid the kid flat again. Clay's eyes were now closed; the minor shift in position must have dropped his blood pressure just low enough to send him over the edge.

"Clay? Clay!" Sonny called.

Trent reached for his throat, testing the pulse there, needing to feel the thrumming for himself, even as he stared at the portable pulse ox monitor. The beat was feeble and fast, but Clay was hanging on. Trying to soothe Sonny's growing panic, he lied through his teeth, "He's okay, his heart beat is still strong."

Trent then took Clay's gear bag and another rolled blanket and wedged it under his knees and legs, bringing some of the tension off of his belly. Considering he'd been stripped of his clothes, they swaddled him in all of their blankets, even being mindful to wrap his neck and head. Trent was careful, though, to fold the blankets just right, so that he could easily check the wounds during their walk to the farmhouse. They tied him down securely with spare paracord and coaxed his head to the side in the event that he vomited. Dustin tucked the O2 monitor at Clay's armpit and then took a long piece of gauze and tied Clay's wrists together, resting them on his upper belly. The very last thing they needed was for him to hurt himself further or unknowingly pull out his sternal IO, the only means they had right now for fluid resuscitation.

"We ready?" Jason asked.

Trent slung his med pack onto his shoulder. "Ready."

"Alright. Mag check, then let's hit the road."

* * *

Putting a bullet straight through Ashur's skull hadn't exactly been Sonny's intention.

They had just lifted Clay's litter, with Sonny and Trent at his head and Brock and Dustin as his feet, when they entered the hallway.

He stopped dead in his tracks, the forward momentum of everyone else nearly making him stumble.

The _sonuvabitch_ was lying _right there_. Sprawled upright against the wall at the bottom of the stairs, he stared straight at them with unseeing, dark eyes. Even dead, Ashur couldn't have looked more like an evil bastard if he'd somehow tried.

Fury clouded every rational bit of judgement Sonny had left. He actually felt his blood pressure spike as his heart thudded loudly in his ears and his vision went red as something inside snapped.

He'd make that piece of shit pay for what he did to Clay, dead or not.

Sonny didn't even know he'd gone for his sidearm until he felt the cold, familiar weight in his palm. And in his sight, the crosshair was aimed directly between Ashur's eyes. Ready to dump his whole clip in.

Sonny might've been furious, but Jason was fast. He saw it all coming the second Sonny ground to a halt and with a growl, he charged forward, shoving Three's hand away.

His pistol _popped_ and Sonny's bullet went wild.

"Jesus!" Jason shoved him again, looking incredulous. "What the _fuck_ are you doing, Three?"

"I thought I saw him move," Sonny ground out, staring Jason dead in the eye. Defiant and daring for a challenge.

"Put your gun away. _Now_," Jason hissed as their eyes locked, his gaze unyielding. Their priority, their focus was Clay - and _Clay only_. And if it was somehow disclosed that Sonny'd committed a damn war crime of mutilating a corpse, his 3IC would certainly lose his trident and he'd be powerless to stop it. "Listen to me. I need you to take a breath for a second and then you need to get your priorities straight, got it? I get what you're feeling right now, I do. _He's our kid_. But us standing here, pissing time - it's doing nothing good for Clay, you understand me? So let's get out of here, get to the farmhouse, and then bring our boy home."

Sonny inhaled raggedly, lips parted as if to speak, but couldn't. Instead, he gave a firm nod and took his position back at Clay's head, and then they joined Alpha Team outside of the compound, disappearing like ghosts into the storming night.

* * *

Thank you for reading! I'd love to hear your feedback and anything you'd like to see in the coming chapters.


	5. Mirage

My sincerest thanks to my two nurse friends: to Laura, who has spent many hours going back and forth with me about all the medical details and really bringing this Clay whump to life. And to Lauren, for your never ending encouragement and beta work. ❤

**Recap:** It was Clay's first mission back since the bombing in Manila that nearly sidelined his career, and he was feeling an insurmountable pressure to regain his brother's confidence in his abilities. Bravo and Alpha Team's (with OC's Dustin Fossett, Keith Shorey, Mike Fellows, and Jimmy Torres) had hiked through the Wakhan Corridor, Afghanistan and over the border to Tajikistan to get to an enemy compound. The mission was simple but went sideways and Clay was viciously attacked by an enemy insurgent (Ashur). Clay is now barely lucid and in and out of consciousness from his injuries, and has been hallucinating the explosion from Manila. Their evac is delayed due to the storm, and the boys have learned that Ilyos got in a phone call to his uncle. Enemy insurgents are on their way to the compound just as they leave... That's where this chapter picks up…

* * *

He inhaled, deep and tremulous. The snow was falling harder and heavier, and the only thing visible within a two foot radius was a wall of virtually impenetrable snowdrift and chinks of black night. They couldn't see a damn thing with their NODs or thermal cameras; blizzards did that, they squelched all ambient light which made their goggles useless - so they were left to navigate the land without any visual aids or headlamps. All around them the wind howled, angry and untameable, whipping snowflakes like pellets and sapping any warmth despite their heavy winter gear. The icy air was so thin that it cut into their lungs like razor blades.

Less than two hours ago, they'd been near this very spot, creeping through the calm mountainside to the compound; a mission that'd gone perfectly from infil to breach. It somehow seemed a lifetime away. How had things gone to hell so fast? And what would happen going forward? Jason trudged through the calf-deep snow and thought of the mission, of the decision to leave the compound, and the unknown dangers that lurked in every direction of this wretched country. Glancing backwards to check on the inky shapeless masses that he could barely make out of his team, his expression reflected a mingle of shock and exhaustion.

Behind him, Metal was angrily hauling a bound and hooded Ilyos, while Keith Shorey and Mike Fellows each shouldered the bodies of their expired American hostages. Jimmy Torres took point, and at the very back, Derek, also of Alpha Team, was at the rear, dragging a thick branch which would hopefully hide their tracks from any unfriendlies. He'd always trusted Alpha, but as they took point and rear, creating a cocoon of sorts around Bravo and their downed kid, he felt a new sort of gratitude towards them. It meant Bravo could keep their sights on Spenser.

Spenser, who was doggedly clinging to consciousness.

Spenser, whose coherency waxed and waned, sometimes fighting against the paracord that restrained him, and slurring out broken sounds that sounded something like:

"_Ash, stop…_

_Ash, lemme go…_

_There's a bomb. _

_Help. _

_Hurts._

_Jace!"_

Spenser, their normally fearless, true pipehitter, kid brother, seemingly slipping between flashbacks and the present; reduced to whimpers and mewls and a childlike countenance that had Jason itching to gather him up and make him whole again. If only it was that simple.

He heard it first.

It was nearly impossible to see at first because of the storm, but they'd finally reached the fast-flowing, glacial Pamir River. Its wild, black surface roared as they cautiously approached the steep riverbank.

Jason studied it while the others gathered behind him, discussing Clay's status, with the medics doing brief health check-ins and demanding their men take healthy sips of water from their hydration packs. Last thing anyone needed was dehydration.

He checked his watch for his compass and reoriented himself. Recalling the map from the brief, he recreated it in his head and approximated the remaining distance they'd need to reach the farmhouse. They'd use the river as a guide and follow it northeast; if they did this, they'd hit the backside of the home in another half klick. As a contingency plan, in case they encountered hostiles or if the weather turned south, they could hike to the mountainside which likely housed naturally-formed caves and take shelter there.

Whatever route they chose, they'd have to stay vigilant; steep drops and crevices surrounded this river valley and it would be easy to lose footing on the slippery, rocky shale.

He thumbed his comm and said, "Havoc, this is Bravo One."

Heavy radio static.

"Bravo One to Havoc, how do you copy?"

Nothing.

"Dammit."

They'd been warned about the steep region interfering with their communications.

Snow crunched behind him, and then Ray was squeezing his shoulder. "Hey, Jay."

"How's Clay doing?"

"He's hanging in there, Trent said he's stable for the moment. How we looking?"

"On target for now," he replied. "If we can keep up the pace and the weather holds, I think we can make it in an hour. We got a problem though, we've lost contact with base."

Ray grimaced. "Mandy warned us about comms problems."

"We can't afford another problem, Ray," Jason scrubbed his face in frustration. "We need to get the farmhouse, reestablish contact with Havoc, call for a CASEVAC, and then get the hell outta -"

Over the wind, Trent was suddenly yelling, "Hey, hey, hey! Put him down! Something's not right."

His heart dropped to his stomach. Locking eyes with Ray for just a second, they tore away from the riverbank and rushed to Six's side; it was plain as day why their medic had suddenly panicked. The oxygen saturation monitor clipped to Clay's finger was shrilling in warning at an increasingly steady rate.

"His O2's at 85," Dustin reported. "What the fuck, he was just at 94. Pulse is elevated. Someone grab my stethoscope!"

"Spenser, what the fuck are you doing?" Trent desperately said, immediately thinking this was a tension pneumo. He started ripping open the straps and blankets that covered him. "Don't do this to me."

"What's happening?" Sonny watched horrified as Clay was laid bare.

"Hurry, Jason!" Trent barked at his leader, who was scouring Dusty's med bag.

"Here, here -" and Jason shoved the stethoscope into Dusty's reaching hands.

"Hey guys, grab a blanket and hold it above us, try to keep some of this snow off the kid," Dustin said.

"Can't see a damned thing. Someone turn on their light!"

"I got it," Brock said as he snapped on his headlamp. Clay came starkly into view; his mouth was parted in a small "o" as he gasped in fast, unregulated breaths. Lips dusky and face grey-ish white, he was nearly as pale as the snow beneath them; pupils swallowed the blue of his eyes as they darted back and forth to the faces above him.

Jason shoved in closer and he stared as Clay struggled for air. "Trent, Dusty, talk to me, what's going on?"

"Tuh.. Treh.. nt," Clay said breathlessly, the word coming out weak and watery…

Watery?

He leaned close to Clay's face - his little brother whose expression looked horrified yet transfixed right on him - and that's when he heard it again… "Okay, I think I know what's going on, alright, buddy? Open up a little more, I'm gonna check your airway. Brock, get in here, shine your light at his mouth," he used his thumbs to part Clay's lips and his insides twisted when he saw the fluid at the back of his throat. Basics of head trauma: if he was leaking cerebrospinal fluid out of his ears, it was just as possible it'd be trickling into his airway. "Alright, he's got some cerebrospinal fluid leaking into his throat…"

"_What_ -" came the breathless gasp from Sonny.

"... he's too weak to clear it on his own and that's why he's having trouble breathing. He's gonna aspirate on it if we can't get this taken care of," and then he muttered, "of all times not to have suction."

"_Suction_? You usually carry around a portable suction in there?" Dusty asked with a raised eyebrow, all the while ripping through his bag of equipment.

"You have to carry everything with these kids, they're damn trouble magnets," Trent muttered.

Below them, Clay was shuddering from the cold. "Treh..nt," followed by an unspoken but clear plea: _help_.

"Shh, shh, I know, brother, we're gonna help you. Guys, I need your help, let's roll him and try to clear out this fluid. Nice and steady, careful with his head."

Clay was rolled sideways, multiple hands carefully guiding his head and bracing his abdomen.

Trent ripped off his winter gloves and replaced them with rubber ones. Quickly, he slipped his fingers inside Clay's mouth, using his fingers to hold down Clay's tongue and sweep away the fluids obstructing his airway. A thin trail of CSF dripped out of Six's mouth and into the snow. He whimpered and gagged a little.

"There we go, brother," Trent reassured him, knowing full well that he was still conscious enough to know what was going on - and terrified.

"Wanna try bagging him? We might be able to push away some more of this stuff," Dusty said, already having a hand on the bag valve mask.

"Good idea. Let's try it."

They laid Clay back flat and held the mask on his face, giving him five puffs of air. Clay's eyes were starting to glaze over and stare at nothing; the effort to simply breathe was tiring him very quickly.

"His oxygen's still low, at 87," Brock warned as he looked at the pulse oximeter.

"You can do better than that, Spenser. Stay with us," Dusty demanded. Clay was slipping and verbal cues weren't working to keep him conscious, so next he went for a painful stimuli. He couldn't rub Clay's sternum because of the IO in place there, but he could go with a peripheral stimulation instead. Clay grimaced when his ear was pinched harshly. "That's it. You feel that? I'm gonna keep that up until you wake up and give me better breaths, you hear?"

"C'mon, kid," Trent whispered. He bagged him a few more times, then dropped the mask. He needed Clay to rouse to a more alert state so he could take deeper breaths and clear his throat of the secretions that were essentially drowning him. He took Dusty's lead; knowing the kid hadn't hurt his upper limbs, Trent lifted his arm and pinched his tricep muscle. Clay winced again. "Come back to us." He pinched harder. "C'mon! _Look at me_."

* * *

"_Look at me._"

"Tr'nt?" Clay mouthed, not having the strength to say it aloud.

Hardly aware of what was happening and why, he took a gasping, ragged breath through lungs that felt full of water. He tried to focus, blinking at the blurriness, and was dazzled by a canopy of shining silver above him… and when some of that haze cleared, he realized that the glimmering color above him was an emergency blanket.

Transfixed, he stared at the silvery material billowing in the squall. It was all he was capable of. He was nothing, nothing but pain and fear and the half-realization that he tenuously existed in a ruined and broken body. Every inch of him was in terrible pain and _he couldn't breathe_ and this was it - here, right here, this was where he was going to die…

The world swam before his eyes, and Clay's awareness then fractured. His body and mind became disconnected as he lost time for the second time that night. Time passed… _or did it?_… and he stared at the silvery blanket until everything darkened… he eyes slipped closed…

He was back in Manila again, where silvery debris floated down from the night sky…

_The air was hot and thick from a recent rainstorm, but now also pungent from the smells of smoke and burning flesh from the first explosion. He rushed along a dark cobblestone street towards a woman, fifty yards ahead of him at the very end of the road, clutching her foot and screaming… _

_But a ringing made him falter. He turned and saw the backpack, and he felt a white hot fear that stole the very breath from his lungs. Knew what it meant. There was no time; not even for one simple step backwards that would help him gain distance… _

_His world burst open and all he could see was fire._

_Then, as his senses came back to him in jarring flashes, he first could hear nothing but a piercing screech. He was soaking wet… blood?_

"_Conscious, not breathing…"_

_He blinked and then his team was there; he saw each blurry face as they moved in dizzying succession. Sonny and his wild blue eyes locked into his own, inches from his own and fervently saying over and over and over,_

"_Breathe… breathe, Clay…."_

_His stomach was hard and clenched and wouldn't let his lungs draw in air and his mouth was open, gaping like a fish out of water. _

"Help," he gasped. He couldn't breathe!

"Breathe, Clay. C'mon, brother, breathe."

"_Breathe!"_

_The streetlights above him cast a warm amber glow; Clay's gaze lazily slipped past Sonny's to stare up at it. The sky was falling. Its light caught the pieces of shining debris that floated down from the sky; they twirled, danced in the air, glimmered and sparkled. He looked back at Sonny; there was a piece of it caught in his beard._

"_Look at me, Clay. Look! Don't you do this!"_

"Don't do this!" he heard in the dark recesses of his foggy brain; its accent was familiar and thick and pleading to him.

"Sson… ?"

_He was dizzy and everything was slipping away. There was no more thinking, there just … was. _

_A blue shawl, iridescent in the glow of the blaze, covered his chest._

_The smell of burnt flesh, singed hair… Sonny's hand, carding through it._

_An ambulance, wailing._

_He still couldn't breathe._

"Ple..ase… I can't."

"Bag him again!"

_He was jerked back to consciousness when Trent shoved a broken pool cue between his belt and pants, twisting it. Pressure. Pain. Painpainpainpainpain. And the pain spread, diffusing out to his arm, twisting, muscle deep… Stop. God, stop. Stop stop stop… _

"Stop," he panted and begged, eyes still closed. "Stop. Yyy - you're hurting me. Stop."

"Come on, brother. I know it hurts, we're gonna take care of that, okay? We're gonna take care of you. But you gotta wake up. Open your eyes and I'll stop pinching you."

"What are you doing to him?" Sonny's voice floated above him. "Trent, quit it, you're hurting him."

"Painful stimuli, he needs to wake up and take deeper breaths. Dammit, Clay, open your eyes."

_Brock was threading a cervical collar around his neck, his hands were shaking and filthy and smelled like soot. There was a sudden, horrifying realization that Cerb was absent… Where was Cerberus? In the bar? Was he in the explosion, too? _

"_Stay with me, Clay, come on, brother," Brock said._

_Sonny was begging above him, "Open your eyes. Open your eyes, Clay!"_

"Open your eyes!"

A sliver of the billowing silver blanket and Sonny's bright blue eyes appeared, as his own eyes fluttered open and he fought for awareness. Fire and soot and the smell of burning flesh faded - and the faces of his brothers, aghast and white, replaced them.

"There we go," Trent said raggedly.

"You with us now?" Dusty asked. He checked the pulse ox. "O2's rising. That's it… breathe a little deeper for me."

"Cerb, um, Cerb?" was all he could speak. Worlds had collided and braided together. He knew not where he was - Manila or Afghanistan or even Virginia Beach - just that everything was dark and he hurt, _God, he hurt_. And Cerberus? His last thought had been that their very special K9 was not at Brock's side _and that was wrong_. "He um… where, Cerb?.. there's a, ruck."

"He ain't making sense," Sonny's own heart was pounding against his ribs.

"Bomb," Clay slurred, insistent. More clearly than anything he could make out around him, he could only feel fear, real fear. He brought up his hands, still bound together with gauze to keep him from injuring himself further, and pawed weakly at Trent. "C, cerb."

"Cerb's right here, Clay," Brock reassured him, and allowed his K9 to nudge in closer to Six's side.

"He's still hallucinating. He was doing this back at the compound, too, talking about the bomb," Trent said.

"You think he's remembering Manila?" Jason asked.

"Must be."

"Confusion and disorientation are hallmarks of severe head injuries," Dusty added in calmly as he repacked the bag valve mask. "We can reassess him closer at the farmhouse, but there's not much else we can do for him here. He's breathing steadier, O2 is 92," then to Clay, "We're in Afghanistan, Spenser. You're feeling a little scrambled, aren't ya, bud?"

Sonny tore his eyes away from Clay for a second, feeling a little vexed that the medic could be that detached from Clay's obvious suffering, but took a breath, held it in. Realized that _someone_ had to be calm and collected while helping his brother, and it sure as shit wasn't him. He watched as Clay's eyes opened a little more. The kid coughed a little and swallowed, took a few gulping breaths - but this time, he didn't sound as congested.

"Trent… " Sonny dared to ask. "He okay?"

Trent reached up and touched Clay's forehead. Cool and sweaty - shock - something he'd be fearing from the second he saw the severity of his injuries. He patted his forehead gently, and then, jaw set, answered, "He's gonna be fine." Like it was an order to Clay, not an answer to Sonny. He glanced at the pulse ox: 93. Getting better, but not great. "Dusty, let's insert an NPA to secure his airway. It might ease the strain and buy us some time until we can get to that house."

"Read my mind," the other medic agreed.

Jason exhaled, his breath puffing out like white smoke. There was a suspended moment of uncertainty where he looked around; all he could see was a wall of thick snow, and just beyond that, complete darkness. The wind howled, drowning out any sounds that could alert them to an enemy attack or ambush. Wholly blind to his surroundings and cut off from Havoc, the urge to keep moving festered and roiled deep in his belly.

Fear flared. They'd been there too long.

Trent had worked with Jason long enough to see tension brewing beneath the surface, didn't need words to know his boss was itching to get to safety. Didn't blame him, either - they were blind and sitting ducks out in the open without ISR or their optical devices. "Almost done, bossman, this'll just take a minute," he reassured him. Then to Clay, as he tore open a small packet, he said, "Hey, hey, listen, Spenser. I'm going to slip an NPA into your nose to help you breathe, alright? I bet you won't even feel it," he said, as he lubricated the small, hollow tube and then threaded it through his right nostril. The nasopharyngeal airway would sit in his nasal passageway and end at the base of his tongue; it acted as a splint which would keep his tongue from occluding his airway, if he became too weak or fell unconscious again. "Easy does it…" Clay winced and coughed against the intrusion. His hands came up again to push weakly at Trent's forearms. "It's almost over… Alright, it's in, that should keep his airway patent…"

Satisfied with its placement, he secured the flange that rested against his nostril with tape.

"O2's holding at 93," Dusty said. "Let's get him in the recovery position to maintain that airway and prevent any aspiration. If he keeps leaking CSF, at least it'll drain easier."

Jason moved up to Clay's head, supporting his c-spine as they carefully rolled him to his side. While Trent and Dusty shifted his limbs into position and tied him back down, Jason leaned close, and when his eyes locked with Clay's big, doey blue ones, he felt a protective streak so fierce that felt like a suckerpunch.

The words nearly stuck in Jason's throat, but he managed to whisper, "I promise you, kid, you're gonna be fine. I'm gonna keep you safe and get you through this. I promise."

Jason held the bag of saline between his teeth and then they were off again, jogging.

_It was fine,_ he said to himself. _It was fine_…

Up until it wasn't.

* * *

Many thanks to those who've taken the time to comment, your feedback feeds to the whump muse!


End file.
